the price of love
by Morghen
Summary: "You wonder why it's possible to fall in love with someone who doesn't love you back." Companion story/Barty's side of his time in "we will be the last ones standing." Rated M for violence and some sexual situations. Won first place in "A Very Slashy Competition" on HPFC.


**Author's note: Bleh, I hate putting these at the top, but there are a few things I want to say about this fic. It's a companion fic to my Regulus/Gideon "we will be the last ones standing" story and is an expanded version of Barty's "relationship" with Regulus during his last year. This story can stand alone, but Regulus' mental state and references to things would be much clearer if you've read "we will be the last ones standing."  
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**The M rating is for violence/abuse and some sexual situations, but more for the abuse than anything.  
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* * *

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_******"****I smoke a dozen cancer sticks  
imagine there are two or three ways  
to make you love me and not dream of someone else  
become the movie on your eyelids"**_

(placebo: the movie on your eyelids)

**.**

**xxx  
**

You feel nothing anymore.

Some days you think you must've used up all your emotions when you were young, always intensely longing for love, first from your parents and then from anyone who would give you the time. You felt too much all at once; a desperate boy who cared too deeply and always for those who never returned the sentiment.

Rolling an unlit cigarette between your fingers, you think back to the last person about whom you cared, the last person you loved or at least wanted to believe you did. A foreign smile creeps its way onto your pale lips when his grey eyes reappear in you mind. You haven't seen him in years - no one has - but his seventeen-year-old self will never fade from your memory.

**xxx**

"You're Marked," you say more at him than to him one day in the corridors. You can just barely see the skeleton-like jaw of the magicked tattoo from beneath the hem of his rolled sleeve. And you know you probably shouldn't have said anything, but the sight of it, the sight of one of _them_ proved too much for your measly self-control. You've longed to see a Mark in person, you've traced the pattern on the skin of your own forearm countless times, you've spent many dreams on the thought of joining those ranks.

He just looks at you, the slightest acknowledgement, but still an acknowledgement nonetheless. He reaches for the sleeve covering part of his left arm and pushes it down until there's no longer any trace of the brand.

And without reply, he continues on his way.

And, with that, your infatuation begins.

**xxx**

You take a seat beside him out on the grounds. It's the last day of summer but feels like the middle of July. Despite the heat, he's still wearing the long-sleeved shirt of his uniform, the tie knotted perfectly in place and all.

Regulus doesn't seem to notice you, even though you are only a mere few inches away from him. He looks up at the sky, raising a cigarette to his lips and trapping the smoke in his lungs for quite some time before exhaling.

"You shouldn't smoke - or at least that's what everyone's saying nowadays," you tell him, not knowing what else to say, but the silence is too much for you to maintain.

He looks at you now, his eyes locking with yours as he takes another heavy drag. "And who says that?" he asks, smoke floating into the air along with his words.

You move your eyes to your shoes and answer sheepishly, "My father."

He scoffs. "Well, since your daddy's Head of the Magical Law Enforcement maybe I should listen to him." Dry sarcasm coats his tone thickly and he continues to inhale the smoke, this time letting it leave as a series of small rings through his mouth.

You watch him, the O-shape form his lips take, the concavity of his cheeks as he expels the transitory rings into the warm air. When he looks back over at you, catching your stare, you quickly divert your attention to the grass. "No," you say after awhile. "No one should listen to my father."

"Fag?" he offers, raising his eyebrows with a smirk. When you nod in acceptance, he fishes the cigarette carton from his pocket and tosses it to you.

You catch it and draw one out, surveying it. You've never smoked before, but you place it tentatively between your lips and he lights it with a match. When you inhale, it feels as though you swallowed a lit match and you cough, which only makes the burning at the back of your throat intensify.

He laughs, but it sounds strangely hollow as though it doesn't belong to him and says, "You're holding it wrong." He moves closer to you, putting his own cigarette between his teeth and lightly holds your wrist whilst repositioning your fingers around the cylinder. Once he's satisfied, his eyes linger on you for the slightest moment before he rises to his feet and leaves.

And you can't help but frown that he's gone.

**xxx**

"She cares, but it's just not enough, you know? My father is never home, though, not even on my birthdays." You don't know why you're telling him this, really, but even though he doesn't come out and say it, it almost feels as though he understands.

He listens, the ever-present cigarette moving mechanically back and forth, to and from his lips, as the pair of you sit on the sill of that open window on the sixth floor. "And that's why you want to take the Mark?" he half-asks, half-states.

You nod. "I want the kinship that comes along with it." You chance a look at your companion and see a grim expression cross his face and hear him sigh. "I just want to be appreciated for once," you add in an almost-whisper, feeling as though your previous words were the wrong thing to say, despite the fact of them being the true driving force behind your wish to become a Death Eater.

"You won't find what you're looking for there."

**xxx**

He tips the carton upside down and shakes it, a single cigarette falling down onto his bed. "Fuck! Do you have any?"

You shake your head, but _Merlin_, you wish you did. You can feel yourself getting antsy at the thought of having to go the morning without a smoke, and it's strange to think you never used to depend on them to get through the slow hours of the everyday. Now sometimes, you even find yourself waking with the desire to fulfill your habit in the late hours of the night. You eye the lone cigarette on the bed and then look up at Regulus. It's his cigarette, his call, but it's also his fault you even crave the damn thing in the first place.

"Blow-back?" he proposes.

You look at him, confused as to what he means.

"Come here," Regulus tells you, patting the spot on the bed directly in front of him. You move to said spot, balancing on your knees, and you feel your heartbeat quicken as he smiles at you. You've never been so close to him, you've never noticed the way his bottom lip juts slightly out just right or how his breath smells of both coffee and cigarettes in a strangely sweet way.

He lights the cigarette and takes a short drag before carefully knocking off any clinging ash from the tip. "Open your mouth," he instructs, and you do as you're told without questioning him because he's Regulus and he knows what he's doing. He places the cigarette's lit end carefully into his mouth and leans toward you, putting a cupped hand on either side of your cheeks. He looks at you momentarily before blowing hard and suddenly your mouth is filled with smoke that you quickly inhale.

He takes the cigarette from his mouth, tenderly touching the spot on his tongue that got burnt in the process, and hands it to you, nodding so as to give you permission to do the same to him. You repeat his actions, your hands touching his cheeks, your lips mere seconds away from his own.

And it takes all your focus not to lean in a little further and close the gap.

**xxx**

You're sitting at the Slytherin table across from him. He doesn't have a thing on his plate and insists that he's not hungry. It's not out of the ordinary for him to go days without eating, or at least, without eating with the rest of the Houses, but it's still something that bothers you.

"Turn around," Regulus says abruptly.

"Why?" you ask, but you do what he told you before he even gets the chance to answer.

"Now, look at McGonagall. Look her right in the eyes."

Your brow draws in confusion, but you comply. "All right."

"Now tell me, could you kill her?"

You spin around quickly, your eyes wide in surprise at his words. "What?"

"Could you kill her?" he repeats, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. "Because that just might be your task if you become a Death Eater."

You look again at your professor and see the life in her eyes. The thought of being behind the wand that extinguishes her life seems unworldly and unbelievable. That's not what the Death Eaters are about, right? It's brotherhood united under shared belief, not under murder... You turn away from her and look back at your breakfast, but without appetite.

But Regulus doesn't stop there. "Picture...picture, Alice. You know her, right? So nice and friendly to those not even in her House."

You nod curtly, still staring down into your plate.

"Could you kill her? Could you take her away from her family and friends? Could you look her in the eye and murder her just because she's on the other side of this war?"

You feel sick and you don't know why he's saying these things. He's lying, he has to be lying - an attempt to scare you out of it for some reason or another. You-Know-Who does those sorts of things, yes, but not his followers, not his supporters.

"Could you do it, Barty?" he urges, reaching forward and tilting your chin up so you have to look at him.

You close your dark eyes and feel an ache in your not-so-Dark head. "No."

"Then don't join the Death Eaters."

**xxx**

"What's it like, being Marked?"

He looks at you strangely, maybe because he thought he had stopped your interest in such things with the conversation a few weeks ago, or maybe because it seems more as though he's looking through you, playing out some distant memory in his mind's eye. You watch as his brow narrows and his jaw clenches tightly, pain etched clearly upon his face. And, as quickly as it appeared, it's gone and he's back beside you, seemingly indifferent as ever. "You want to know?" His tone is cold and the smirk on his lips gives you chills for some reason, but you nod your head.

He pulls up the sleeve that was covering his left forearm and you see it fully for the first time, the skull and the snake slithering its way through it. You're in awe, but that doesn't last long because he grabs your right arm and moves the sleeve up, exposing your bare flesh to the cold air. "What are you doing?" you ask, your eyes wide in alarm as he grips you tightly by the wrist with one hand and removes the cigarette with the other.

"Do you want to know how it feels or not? Because I'll show you - I'll give you a Mark." When you slowly nod your head in reply (because you're not sure whether you could even speak through your trembling lips), he smiles. "You have to be silent, no matter how badly it hurts, okay?"

You nod once again.

He regards his own Mark once more before taking the cigarette in his hand and pressing it firmly against your milky skin. The moment it makes contact, you use all your power not to cry out in pain and you clamp your free hand over your mouth, biting the skin of your bottom lip so hard that you're sure your teeth with soon meet through. As he drags the hot end across your arm, carefully and precisely, copying the image permanently onto your skin, you try to think of something else, anything else but the pain. You think of him, you focus on the determined look in his eyes, the way he's biting his own lip in concentration, the curve of his nose, anything and everything except this pain he's inflicting. Your toes curl as he presses harder suddenly and you can feel tears freely flowing from your eyes, dripping down your face and stinging what now must be an open wound on your lip.

When he's finished, he doesn't let go of your arm as he surveys his work. You look at his face and can see some sort of regret on it and he shakes his head as he rises to his feet. He flicks the cigarette butt to the ground and now looks down at you. "Does it make you happy?"

Blood from your lip mixes with the salty water of your tears, making a trail down your chin, your arm searing with indescribable pain, and you just lower your eyes and shake your head "no."

"And neither will the real one."

**xxx**

You look at your bare left arm, the unblemished skin, the blue of your veins shining through it, and then you look at your right arm. The brand is a few inches in length, the red raised skin and burnt outline contrasting greatly with the white border. The dark ovals of the skull's eyes are the places burnt the worst; he had held the cigarette against your arm, twisting and pushing it into your flesh roughly, having to light it again a second time to finish the job.

"A friend wouldn't do this to you" are the words that keep ringing in your ears.

But you don't care, you don't care. Without him, who else do you have? Without him, you would be alone, and you don't want to be alone.

And besides, a part of you thinks you love him.

(And the other part thinks you'd love anyone who would show you a bit of attention.)

**xxx**

It's Christmas and he kissed you.

Looking back on it, you're not sure how or why or even really when it happened, but he had offered to light your cigarette and, when you leaned forward, his lips were on yours. It was quick and you had pulled away in confusion and surprise but regretted your action when he left soon afterward.

You press your fingers against your lips, touching the spot where his had been just minutes ago, and you can almost feel their ghost. Sure, you've been kissed before, but never like that, never by another wizard. And, though it's not right (but when have you cared about that?), you liked it, you liked the way he was the one in control, the way he tasted.

And you surely wouldn't mind doing it again.

**xxx**

He pushes you roughly against the wall, the force of it nearly bringing stars to your eyes. His lips hover before yours and it's torture to have them be so close and yet not close enough. His breath warms your face, his hands pinning your arms to the cold stone wall above your head, and every time you try to close the gap, he pulls slightly away.

It's like a game to him, to see how crazy he can drive you, to see how badly he can tease you. First with physical pain, now more with physical longing than anything, but you don't mind because you just want him. You're willing to put up with his cruelties if it means he'll stay.

You can feel your legs shake, your breath leave in stutters, when he brings his mouth just near enough to lightly bite your bottom lip. "Please" comes out desperately from your lips, because you just want him, you want the feeling of his skin pressed against your own, the feeling of his lips claiming yours, the feeling of him.

His tongue runs over your lip before he moves slightly back again. You can see the hunger blazing in his eyes and suddenly you aren't sure if he's testing your self control or his own. He swallows and shuts his grey eyes before finally closing the miniscule gap between the two of you. It's all teeth and tongue, it's all frantic and fierce, but you don't care because it's him and right now that's all you need. Your arms try to free from his hold because they're aching and, really, you just want to touch him and have him touch you, but he keeps them in place. You want to protest, to ask him to let you go, but you don't because you're afraid, afraid he'll leave and you'd rather have him like this than not have him at all.

**xxx**

"He gave me a Time-Turner to use, you know? And I had thought if I got twelve O.W.L.s, he'd be happy, but he wasn't." You can feel his eyes on you as you speak, even though it's dark and you can't actually see him across your bed. The embers of his lit cigarette are the only light source and even they are dimming slowly as time ticks. "He's never happy."

"Nobody's ever happy." His voice is cold and you wonder if he truly believes that; you wonder if he's ever been happy.

"I've been happy," you protest. "I was happy when you first spoke to me." The second phrase comes out more as a whisper, and you wish you could see his face, see if your words affected him in any way.

"You're fucked." You frown at this, but then he adds, "But that makes two of us."

**xxx**

Some days he lets you get close.

It's midnight and you're half-convinced that he just never sleeps. You're sitting on his bed, this time beside him, the curtains drawn, a Silencing Spell cast so as not to wake up the other seventh years. He's holding a lit match, the light dancing off from it before he brings it to his cigarette and then extinguishes it with a pinch of his fingers.

Tentatively, you take those fingers in your hand, slowly enough for him to pull away and pass it off as an accidental brush, but he doesn't. They're warm to the touch from their recent contact with fire and you just trace them carefully with your fingertips. Once you reach his slim wrist, you follow his veins twisting up his arm, their prominence making a clearly felt trail until you reach his shoulder.

You shift so that your weight is resting on your knees and you're facing him. You lean towards him, one hand lifting his chin, but he doesn't move his cigarette from his mouth so you kiss the corner of where the pink of his lips ceases to flow, the cigarette's tip brushing the side of your cheek. He exhales his smoke, filling your nose and burning your eyes, but you continue to plant tender kisses along the length of his jawline. You hear the tiniest hint of a laugh emit from him when your breath tickles his earlobe, but when you lean even closer to him, cuddling down beside him, he pushes you away.

"Don't" is all he says and you listen, but you're not quite done with testing where he sets the limits; you want to know how far he'll let you go, how close he'll let you get.

You move to the other side of the bed, kneeling now on the spot between his parted legs. You slowly pull the comforter down, again waiting for him to protest, and continuing on when he doesn't. Once it's moved away, leaving him before you clad only in boxers, you place one hand on either side of him. Lowering your head, you press your lips against his stomach, your bottom one brushing the rim of his navel and you can feel a slight shudder run through him. You slowly drag your tongue down, through the light trail of hair, and to the hem of his shorts. You then move up again, kissing one of his prominent hipbones while your fingers grasp at his shorts. As you pull them down, you once more give him the opportunity to stop you.

You've never given, let alone received, head before, but you set your mind on pleasuring him because, then, maybe he'll think better of you, maybe he'll care for you more or at all. You hover over his member, thoughts running through your head, trying to decide what to do first, what other people do first in such a situation.

"Don't just fucking stare at it," he growls before gripping a handful of your straw blond hair and pulling you down.

It's a strange sensation at first and he pulls your head down so far that you almost choke, but you try and concentrate. Your tongue twists around it and he keeps his hand in your hair, moving you up and down at a pace he sees fit. You hear nothing from him and after a bit, he removes his hand, and you can't help but wonder if you're doing it wrong, if it's too much _this_ and not enough _that_. Once he releases, you finally hear a slight groan from him, but that's the extent of it.

You look up at him, sheepishly, and see he's just playing with his matches, not seemingly fazed by anything that just happened. "Mind if I stay here the night?" you ask, hopeful still that there's a chance he might want you with him now ― that's all you want, to fall asleep with him.

"Goodnight, Barty," he says, dismissing you without a second glance.

**xxx**

He doesn't speak to you for a week.

You missed him during every one of those long hours; you can't think of a single moment that passes without him on your mind. You had attempted to talk to him a handful of times and, with every try, he would just walk past without the slightest acknowledgement of your presence.

And now he's sitting on your bed, acting as though nothing has happened, as though nothing has changed.

"How long have you been here?" you question after the initial shock of finding him in your bed has eased. Judging by the pile of burnt cigarettes and matches that he's left on your pillow, it's been a while. You take off your shoes and set your books on the top of your trunk before taking a seat on the opposite side of your bed. When you look at him, he's all glassy eyes and whiskey breath and you just sigh.

Regulus doesn't answer your question, though. His usually nimble fingers struggle to light the match he's holding now and he throws it down in the growing pile with visible frustration. "Fucking hell," he mutters, dumping all of the matches out of their box as he tries to retrieve a new one. You reach out and pick one up, striking it against your bedpost to light it, and that's when he seems to take notice of you. A smirk spreads across his face as he leans across the bed to take the stick from your fingers. "Why are you sitting so far away?"

"Why have you been ignoring me?" you counter. "Is it because..." You let your question trail off in hopes that he's at least sober enough to realize what you're trying to ask.

He laughs at you, leaning forward until he's sprawled across your bed with his head next to your lap. "Just because Slughorn could probably give better head than you isn't a reason to stop speaking to you." He smiles his cigarette smile and his fingers move their way to your thigh, rubbing light circles into it. "It's just...complicated." He reaches for your green and silver tie, grabbing hold of it and using it to pull you down toward his face. Your nose is filled with both the lingering smell of alcohol and the present smell of smoke as he whispers, "I can show you how to do it." He arches his neck up, capturing your lips with his before you get the chance to reply and now you can taste the burn of firewhiskey on his tongue. He tugs harder on your tie and you move down beside him, your eyes locking with his, and you search them for some sort of anything, but all you find is stone grey and glass but no feeling. This thought, however, leaves your mind as quickly as it appeared because he's over you now straddling your waist, his lips brushing against your neck.

His fingers in which his cigarette is held rest on your wrist and suddenly the tip presses into your skin; the pain of it catches you off-guard, but you almost think he meant to do it because he immediately captures your scream with his mouth, the whole situation causing him to grind into your hips, which takes your mind away from the pain and brings a moan from your lips. He presses his thumb against the newly inflicted burn and your whimper triggers him to grind his hips once more against your own, harder this time, and you can feel him through the two layers of clothing. And, quite frankly, you don't mind the pain when it brings about such a reaction from him.

"_Fuck_, Barty, I want you," he breathes onto your flesh, sending goosebumps running across your skin in every direction.

He's drunk and you shouldn't, but you answer him with a kiss and just hope that this will be more satisfying for him.

**xxx**

You wake up to an empty bed, but when you touch the spot on which he had lain, you can still feel the heat from his skin. It wasn't only a dream and you can even see the shape of him pressed into your sheets to prove it.

Lying where his head had been on your pillow is a single cigarette. You reach for it and roll it between your fingers absentmindedly as you think more about last night's and this early morning's events.

After it all was over, after you two were nothing but a mess of sweat and moans, you had begged him to stay, not to leave you. And, with a comment about how begging really _does _suit you, he'd snaked his arm around your bare waist and rested his head beside yours on the pillow.

You, well, you had stayed up as long as you could because how could you really sleep when you had longed for that moment for days on end. His perfect fingers spread, all five pressing lightly against your stomach, holding you close to his own body. His breath rolled across your neck, his chest pressing on your back with every inhalation ― and you missed the feeling of it with every exhalation. Honestly, you wouldn't mind at all if that is how you spend every remaining night that you have left on this lonely planet.

Bringing the cigarette up to your lips, you notice words written along the length of it. You take a closer look and, in a handwriting that you recognize, are the words: "don't get used to it."

**xxx**

He laughs and it's not hollow like usual; it's one of the most beautiful things you've ever heard. You wish it could ring in your ears all the time, soothing your pain and lightening your worries. "_Bartemius_? You poor child."

Your light brow narrows, but there's nothing you can do to stop a smile from spreading in spite of his teasing. "And _Regulus _is much better?"

He shrugs, smoke spilling from his mouth and then disappearing into the winter's harsh air as the two of you walk aimlessly around the grounds. Everyone else who can go is in Hogsmeade, but he refuses to visit the village and you see no point in going without him. "It's a family name."

"So is Bartemius." When he doesn't say anything in reply, you ask, "What would you name your child?"

He ponders the question for a moment, his hand running through his shoulder-length locks. You watch a slight grin play on his lips when he finally answers, "Basil."

And in the way that he says the name, you can't help but think there's something more to it, a reason behind it. "Is that a family name, as well?"

"Yes," he says with a nod. "A very dear family member, you could say."

**xxx**

After searching for him throughout the castle, looking for him in all the places in which the two of you usually are together, you finally find him in that abandoned room on the sixth floor. His usual seat on the open windowsill is vacant, but you see him sitting on the floor towards the far side of the room.

"Go" is the only thing he says to you and you're not sure how he's even aware of your presence when he hasn't looked in your direction since you've entered the room. His voice is hoarse, strained in a way you've never before heard it.

Ignoring his request, you approach him, tentatively taking a place beside him on the dust-ridden floor. The sleeve of his left arm is pushed back and you're surprised to see the usual faint outline of his Mark is now deep black, inking his arm like the mark of a quill. His fingers are closed in on his palm tightly, his nails digging into his own skin; the streams of veins are pressing against his flesh, more prominent than ever. When you move your eyes to his face, you can see a trail of silently shed tears slipping down his cheeks.

You want to hold him, to bring him close to you and make whatever's paining him to disappear. You want to kiss each of his tears away, capturing those salty signs of weakness with your lips because they just don't suit him, they look so wrong, so out of place as they slowly slide from the corners of his eyes and stain his skin. But you don't because you know better than to think he'd let you or even to think that you're strong enough to cure him of his plague. "What's wrong?" you ask, because really, that's all that you can do.

His eyes open, bloodshot and cloudy, and his voice sounds as though he's fighting off screams from escaping his lips as he says, "Do you know how the Mark summons Death Eaters?"

The question catches you off-guard and you shake your head.

"It burns, a little at first, but it gets worse the longer you don't answer his calls. And there's nothing I can do - I can't leave." His eyes suddenly clench shut once more, along with his jaw and his nails pressing so hard against the inside of his hands that you don't know how he hasn't broken the skin. "Some days," he says, and you can hear the anguish in his voice, "some days, I think he does it on purpose because he knows I can't answer him."

"He wouldn't do that" slips from your lips because you can't understand, because the only You-Know-Who you know is a romanticized version that you've made up in your mind.

Regulus reached out and grabs you roughly, his fingers imprinting themselves on your cheeks, and he brings your face closer to his own. "You're fucking delusional."

**xxx**

"Can I ask you something?" You look down at the unblemished snow in front of you before your footprint presses into it. You've spent a good deal of your sixth year just wandering around the grounds with him, usually after the sun sets but sometimes whilst the glimmer of the sun is still present.

"Hm?"

Your gaze raises and settles onto his profile; he continues to stare ahead and doesn't seem to notice nor care that you're looking at him. "If being a Death Eater is so terrible, then why'd you take the Mark?"

The crunch of his boots settling into the snow is all you get for a reply for some time. He just stands there, continuing to stare off into the distance as though the answer to your question is painted clearly in the Forbidden Forest and if you only could tear your gaze from him you could find it. When he finally does answer, you can hear the lie in his words, "Because I wanted to."

"I don't believe that," you tell him, pressing your luck. Most times you would've happily and blindly accepted his lie without a second thought or word, but this, this is a question whose answer you truly wish to know. "And, you asked me if I could murder someone and said if I couldn't then don't take the Mark, but I don't think you could do it either."

His eyes finally seem to notice your presence and when they do, the brows above them narrow. "You don't think I could kill someone?"

You shake your head almost defiantly, lifting your chin in a manner daring him to prove otherwise.

And he does.

He reaches out, his fingers clasping around your neck before you can react, and pushes you down into the snow. He falls on top of you, the weight of his lean body still heavy on your chest as his nails continue to dig into your throat, his skin and eyes as cold as the snow that surrounds you. He looks down at you, no expression visible on his visage, as his fingers tighten, cutting off any air from entering or exiting your lungs. "You think I care about you, Barty? You think I really give a fuck about you?"

Your lips part as you desperately try to draw in a breath, but it's no use. Your hands grab his, your fingers over his own trying to pry them off your neck, but the gloves covering them can't seem to get a grasp on his bare ones. Your wand — it's in your pocket but you haven't the ability to speak and were never any good with nonverbal spells. It's silent except for the sound of his breathing and that sound fills your ears, mocking you with every inhalation and exhalation, teaching you for taking such a thing for granted, for trusting such a person.

You hadn't really believed him capable of harming anyone, but as your head begins to spin you think you've underestimated his ability and overestimated his care.

His grip loosens and you can hear him laugh, but it's not beautiful anymore - it's chilling and sends a shiver up your spine. He leans down towards you and you don't open your eyes because you don't want to see him, you don't want to see him ever again. "I joined because I was a desperate boy just like you," he says, the emphasize on the last three words nearly as unnerving as his laugh, and you try to pull away from him, but his hands still hold you close by the neck. You feel his lips against yours and then he adds, "And nothing has changed."

**xxx**

The mirror before you shows a story of brilliant bruises and ashtray arms, shows a story of love.

You lean against the marble basin, getting as close to the reflection in front of you as you can possibly manage. He has the same blond hair, the same slightly upturned nose, the same lost look, but he's not the same, you're not the same. That air of hope, that naïve, childlike innocence that you had possessed still at the start of your sixth year is gone and you know it's all because of him.

Your fingers tenderly touch the shadows that his left, looking like purple paint against your pale skin, and you shudder, the memory of the event still fresh in your mind. You look at your arms, the charred scars all at different stages of healing, trailing up and down like little reminders that he was there. And you know, if you could see your heart, his mark would be visible there as well - it's more than skin deep.

You see it all, you see the pain, you see the abuse, but you're not strong enough, you've never been strong enough. You just want him to love you (and he does, he does in his own way, right?); you just want to matter to someone.

Besides, that last kiss, its taste lingered on your lips long after the pain that he caused disappeared.

**xxx**

You see him on your bed again and wonder if there's a pattern forming.

Almost three weeks without a word and this time you didn't try, you didn't beg for him to come back, to talk to you. You had wanted to, of course, but you'd busied yourself instead with books and studies, things you used to enjoy before him.

You don't say anything and he doesn't either; he just merely scoops the pile of extinguished cigarettes and matches from your pillow, still leaving little specks of ash that dropped from them. You hadn't expected an apology (how does one apologize for almost strangling someone, anyways?), but some recognition of his wrongdoing would be nice. You crawl in beside him, slipping under the covers and lying on your side so that your face is pointing toward the emerald curtain that shields you and him from the rest of the world.

You feel him shift beside you, his nose brushing over the back of your neck as he settles on your pillow. He's spooned against you and his hand snakes its way beneath your shirt, lightly trailing up your chest and settling over your heart. His proximity brings goosebumps and quickens the beating of your heart and you can hear him snort with amusement when he feels the change of pace. You wish that, after everything that's happened, you could say his touch repulses you, but you can't.

"Barty," he says almost tauntingly, his lips right behind your ear, "Barty, are you mad at me?"

You wish that, after everything that's happened, you could say "yes," but you can't.

"Barty," he prompts, and you hate that you love the way your name sounds coming from his lips.

"No," you reply and, though he brings you closer when he hears your answer, you're sure he'll be far away again by morning.

**xxx**

As the snow melts and the flowers bloom, you think he's losing himself and it scares you.

You sit beside him on the windowsill, the air no longer too cold to stand, the faint rays of sun heating your skin like a warm breath. He's spoken of it before, he has, but not like this; he didn't have that look in his eyes, that look that tells you he'd really do it without a crossing thought.

"The only thing that's stopping me," he says, his voice eerily calm, and you don't understand how anyone could stomach speaking of his own death that way, void of care or concern, "is that I don't want to be buried. I don't want a funeral."

He stops and you know he wants you to ask why, to ask why he wishes to leave the earth as you did the last time this subject was unearthed, but you won't. You don't want to know anymore because, the previous time, that autumn evening, it was just talk or at least that's what you had believed then. But now...well, now you wouldn't put anything past him; now you know that the only thing he hates more than everything is himself.

"Because I don't want a place that marks my existence - I just want to be forgotten."

You still remain silent, your fingers trembling as they grip the edges of the sill. You wonder if you just reached over and covered his hand with yours, if he'd pull away; you've never held his hand and probably never will.

He leans closer to you, whispering through a cloud of smoke, "Promise to forget about me."

"I won't," you tell him, because how could you, how could anyone forget him. He is singular in a way you've never before encountered and know well that you'll never encounter again. And anyway, time may erase memories and change feelings, but it can't steal scars, and he's left you with plenty of those.

You lean closer to him, whispering through a cloud of tears, "I love you." The words burn your throat like the first drag off your first cigarette, but they're true, and maybe it's the truth in them that hurts.

As the snow melts and the flowers bloom, you think you're losing yourself and it scares you.

**xx****x**

You wonder why it's possible to fall in love with someone who doesn't love you back.

The black leather of one of the couches in the common room sticks to your bare skin, and you've never liked them. Your fingers fiddle idly with a cigarette; the feel of the smooth paper is almost like home and you know that you could light it up in here without worry of being ratted out, but he has the matches and he's asleep on the space beside you. You've never seen him sleep before and used to question whether he ever did, but now he's become a little more human like everyone else.

His breath comes out in rattles, escaping through his barely-parted lips, and you watch him, lowering the book you had been reading onto your lap. It's strange to think that, just a few hours ago, those lips had been saying words about how he'll never love you, how he doesn't love anyone in between low moans and rough kisses. You told yourself he was lying because he loves you, he must love you or why would he keep coming back.

But, when he opens his grey eyes and you see that emptiness that is ever-present in them, you believe him for a second and, during that second, it's the loneliest time of your life. You force a smile when he looks at you and it disappears. "I didn't know you ever slept."

Regulus has that disoriented daze of waking up in a strange place at a strange time on his face, but then he rubs his eyes and yawns. He stretches out across the lengthy couch, his heels pressing against your thigh, and you wish you were as tall as he is. "Are you going to smoke that?" he asks, ignoring your previous statement, his voice sleep-ridden in a way you've never heard it before.

You eye the cigarette, rolling it around with your fingers a few more times before offering it to him. He doesn't make any movement to grab it so you move over and stick it in his mouth. He smirks and then lights it, coughing violently as he takes a drag.

"Maybe you should quit or cut back."

"Maybe you should fuck off."

You don't say anything and just pick your book back up. As you thumb through the pages, you wonder if you could even discriminate love from hate or if there's even a difference at all.

**xxx**

"But you said you didn't love anyone" comes from your mouth, and you can feel your heart constricting which hurts more than anything you've ever felt before.

He looks annoyed with you and the whole subject, and you wish you never had brought it up; you wish you would've left well enough alone. "Well, I lied."

"Is that why you don't love me? Because you're still in love?" You try to picture it, you try to picture Regulus being in love. You wonder if his eyes would light up when he saw that person, you wonder how his voice sounded when he spoke words to him or her, you wonder why it couldn't have been you.

"It's more because I can't fucking stand you."

You swallow, and the dawning realization that all the things he's said to you, all the things you've spent weeks upon weeks convincing yourself of otherwise, were all true. You feel his gaze on you as you stand up, and all you can think of is that you don't want to be near him, that you don't want ever to be near him again, and you turn and walk back toward the castle. Your legs are shaky and you can't breathe and you secretly hope he's following you, running for you and trying to stop you from leaving, but honestly you know he's not.

And you're right.

**xxx**

He lies to get you out of class so he can talk with you (_"Professor Flitwick asked me to get Barty for him. Said something about Remedial Charms_.") and all your classmates snicker, enjoying the thought that the boy with twelve O.W.L.s is in need of Remedial anything. You don't bother with even trying to deny his words and instead leave the classroom, quickening your footsteps when you go by him and not bothering to wait. You know he'll find you soon enough, though.

And he does.

He climbs into your bed alongside you and surveys you. You don't feel ashamed of the tears that are flowing freely down your cheeks or of your unsteady breathing because they both come out in love and there's no weakness in that. He looks at you a bit longer, silently, before leaning slowly in and capturing your mouth with his, and you can taste your tears on his lips. It's perfect, but you pull away when you remember he doesn't love you.

Words are exchanged and you wonder how he can even call you his friend; friends don't do the things he did, friends don't do the things you did together. But he doesn't care because he can't and you just care too much, but it's too much.

"What do you want me to say?" he asks.

You know your words are useless, that they won't matter because, even if he gives you the answer you want, you don't want it that way, you don't want to have to beg for his love. "I just want you to love me."

He fidgets on the bed, moving just slightly away from you as if your request is too much for him to handle. He looks at you, and you think that you see some sort of regret flash in his look, the same emotion you saw when he Marked you, and he shakes his head. "You know I can't do that."

You nod your head because you understand and you watch him leave without another word.

The feeling of loneliness washes over you as the curtain sways behind him.

This is the last time you speak to Regulus Black.

**xxx**

He's gone, they say now, gone before you ever got into the Dark Lord's ranks.

Some say he died at You-Know-Who's hand and others say it was at his brother's, but either way he got part of his wish. There was no funeral held for the youngest Black.

Only part of his wish, though, because you still remember him, he's not forgotten. The marks burned into your skin by a lost seventeen-year-old boy for reasons you've never understood have faded, but they're still there. Your first Mark is as permanent as its magicked mirror and you're glad of this, you're glad to bear the reminders of him.

And though you feel no love anymore and no longer long for such a thing, you think your heart will always belong to him.

**xxx**

* * *

**I've been meaning to write Barty's side of his appearance in "_we will be the last ones standing_" so here is it. I always have felt bad for Barty after writing his part and thought his side of the story needed to be shown. I also tried to to expand on my writing limits...which was interesting to say the least. **

**This was also written for HedwigBlack's A Very Slashy Competition in HPFC.  
**

**Thanks mew for betaing and dealing with Barty in general. I'm glad the fic's done, but I think I might miss abusing him ;P  
**


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